had asked; the descent of Mary Antrim opened his spirit with a
great compunctious throb for the descent of Acton Hague. It was as
if Stransom had read what her eyes said to him.

After a moment he looked round in a despair that made him feel as
if the source of life were ebbing. The church had been empty--he
was alone; but he wanted to have something done, to make a last
appeal. This idea gave him strength for an effort; he rose to his
feet with a movement that made him turn, supporting himself by the
back of a bench. Behind him was a prostrate figure, a figure he
had seen before; a woman in deep mourning, bowed in grief or in
prayer. He had seen her in other days--the first time of his
entrance there, and he now slightly wavered, looking at her again
till she seemed aware he had noticed her. She raised her head and
met his eyes: the partner of his long worship had come back. She
looked across at him an instant with a face wondering and scared;
he saw he had made her afraid. Then quickly rising she came
straight to him with both hands out.

"Then you COULD come? God sent you!" he murmured with a happy
smile.

"You're very ill--you shouldn't be here," she urged in anxious
reply.

"God sent me too, I think. I was ill when I came, but the sight of
you does wonders." He held her hands, which steadied and quickened
him. "I've something to tell you."

"Don't tell me!" she tenderly pleaded; "let me tell you. This